


The One Where The Crew Of The NC-2218 Baker Gets Doused With Space Pollen

by twisting_vine_x



Category: SherTrek, Sherlock (TV), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), TrekLock - Fandom
Genre: Cuddling, First Kiss, M/M, Romance, SherTrek - Freeform, Treklock, briefly implied Lestrade/Myrcoft, cliches, sap, space pollen, wee little bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:48:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twisting_vine_x/pseuds/twisting_vine_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hell, he’d only signed up for Starfleet in the first place because Sherlock – the brilliant bastard – had decided to enlist. ‘Better scientific opportunities, John!’, and, ‘Imagine, John, new planets to explore!’; and because John is an idiot who’d gone and fallen in love with the most unattainable man in the universe, he’d caved and pulled the same stunt. Followed Sherlock into freaking Starfleet - and the last thing John had ever expected was to be singled out by his superior officers as ‘command material’, and to be put on the track toward leadership.</p><p>And yet here they are. Eight years later, and John is – insanely – the captain of his own starship, with Sherlock at his side as one of the best first officers and science officers in the fleet, matched only by the brilliant Vulcan scientist under Captain Kirk’s command. They’re on an away mission, of course – because that’s always, inevitably, when things get so very messed up – and there had been a bunch of flowers that Anderson – naturally – had decided to bring back to the group; and even as John makes a note to bring a different security officer, next time, he’s distracted by Hooper's somewhat apologetic expression as she looks up from her tricorder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where The Crew Of The NC-2218 Baker Gets Doused With Space Pollen

**Author's Note:**

> A/N #1: Written for this prompt: “That one time we put the cast of Sherlock as the crew on the _Enterprise_.” This is… probably actually a lot less cracktastic than the summary and title imply. 
> 
> A/N #2: Also, my wider headcanon behind this ficlet probably isn’t necessary for this story, but. Figure I’ll post it anyway. :) Their ship is the _NC-2218 Baker_ ; and John is the captain, Sherlock is the first officer and science officer, Molly is the CMO, Lestrade is the chief engineer, Mycroft is head of security, Anthea is chief communications officer, Irene is the pilot, and Mrs. Hudson is the navigator.

While John may not have read the Starfleet manual since his first year at the Academy, he’s pretty sure he didn’t sign up for this shit. 

Hell, he’d only ever signed up for Starfleet in the first place because Sherlock – the brilliant bastard – had decided to enlist. ‘Better scientific opportunities, John!’, and, ‘Imagine, John, new planets to explore!’; and because John is an idiot who’d gone and fallen in love with the most unattainable man in the universe, he’d caved and pulled the same crazy stunt. Followed Sherlock into freaking Starfleet, of all things; and the last thing John had ever expected was to be singled out by his superior officers as ‘command material’, and to be put on the fast track toward leadership.

And yet here they are. Eight years later, and John is – insanely – the captain of his own starship, with Sherlock at his side as one of the best first officers and science officers in the entire fleet, matched only by the brilliant Vulcan scientist under Captain Kirk’s command. They’re on an away mission, of course – because that’s always, inevitably, when things get the most screwed up – and there had been a bunch of flowers that Anderson – naturally – had decided to pick and bring back to the group; and now he and Donovan are dancing what looks like some kind of waltz, blissful smiles on their faces and their red shirts smudged with pollen. Distantly, John makes a note to bring different security officers, next time, but he’s distracted by the somewhat apologetic look on Hooper’s face as she looks up from her medical tricorder, lips pressed tightly together.

“So. Captain. Um. I don’t know exactly what strain of flora this is, but it appears to –”

“Lower inhibitions? Induce sensations akin to intoxication?”

He can’t help the way it comes out desert dry, and she gives him another apologetic little smile before she goes back to scanning over her readings; and John allows himself a single tired sigh before he takes another look around. Hudson and Adler seem to be sitting in the grass and creating some kind of chain of leaves and flowers, while Lestrade and Mycroft are snuggled up together in a way that’s possibly a little more affectionate than is strictly professional, and –

And then there’s Sherlock. Who’s watching everything like a hawk, brilliant and gorgeous as always; and, this time, John’s sigh is one of relief. There’s no sign of pollen on Sherlock’s blue shirt, thank everything – the last thing John needs is for his First Officer to be affected by this potentially impending disaster – and he goes to stand beside him, trying to ignore how pleased Sherlock looks as he watches Donovan and Anderson. Trying to ignore the stupid little swoop that shoots through his stomach at standing so close to Sherlock.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Perhaps.”

“Sherlock –”

“I will never not appreciate having visible proof of Anderson’s idiocy.”

There’s the slightest twitch of his lips as he says it – damn him – and a sparkle in his eyes that’s impossible for John to resist; and John ducks his head to hide a smile of his own, though he knows that Sherlock will pick up on it, anyway. Waits until he’s no longer grinning in a way that’s rather unbecoming for a Starfleet captain before he looks up again, to where Hooper is keeping a careful distance from the rest of the group, even as she does her best to scan them with her tricorder.

“Well, amusing as Anderson may be, our time on this planet is officially finished.”

Sherlock simply nods, before his eyes go back down to his tricoder, and John’s just reached for his communicator, intending to call up to Anthea and instruct her to beam everyone up under quarantine protocol, when –

“Sherlock!”

It happens before either of them can react. One moment, there’s just the two of them; and the next, Anderson has launched himself at Sherlock, giant grin on his face, and wrapped him in a massive hug. It can’t last more than a few seconds – both Sherlock and John scramble to push him off – but by the time he’s stumbled back, still grinning widely in the face of the way Sherlock looks like he’s actually going to kill him this time, the damage is done. John feels warm, suddenly, from his toes to his face; and he fights down a flush as he looks at Sherlock, trying to not stare at him – trying to ignore the way Sherlock’s expression abruptly seems to glaze over – as he coughs and blinks and tries to ignore how absolutely fucking drunk he suddenly feels.

“I – christ. Doctor Hooper. I’m – we’re both – christ, this stuff. Compromised. Both of us. We need –”

“I’ll contact the ship, and have them beam us up under quarantine.”

“I – yes. That, what you said. Holy _shit_ ¸ what is this stuff –”

He can’t help the way he stumbles, suddenly – the ground is moving, he’s sure of it, and there’s a rushing noise in his ears, and his skull feels too tight – and then there are warm hands keeping him steady. He reaches out to cling to Sherlock in return – it only seems fair that, if Sherlock’s holding him up, then John should return the favour – but something doesn’t quite work right; because they both seem to trip over each other’s feet and go down onto the grass, and, oh, jesus. Sherlock has a really nice laugh. It’s something that John so rarely ever hears, and now it’s right next to his ear, and John can’t help a stupid little giggle in return, grinning widely as the clouds spin above him –

“Energize.”

It’s a distant noise – fuzzy and far away – and then the grass and the clouds are gone, and John can’t stop a frown. Burrows in closer against Sherlock’s chest, and sighs as Sherlock tightens his arms around him – until there’s what sounds like a throat clearing, and John blearily raises his eyes to find someone – Hooper – staring down at them with something that looks both amused and concerned.

“I – right, then. Definitely to quarantine with you two.”

It’s somehow funny, and John can’t help the way he lets himself sag back down against the – transporter pad? – as he laughs up at the ceiling, Sherlock’s body still solid against John’s, and his arms gentle around John as he pulls him closer, snuggling against him as John closes his eyes and smiles.

\- - - 

John thinks that time might be passing, but it’s all too fuzzy to tell. All he knows is that he’s wrapped around Sherlock, and that Sherlock is warm and perfect and wonderful, wrapped around him in ways that John has only ever imagined for years and years; and that every time his mind fogs over and he fades out of focus, blurs everything out, and then comes back again, Sherlock is there to meet him, muttering nonsense, and holding on so very tight. Nothing else makes sense, anymore – the world keeps on spinning, and his head feels like it’s collapsing – and he’s pretty sure that the only thing keeping him from floating away is Sherlock’s arms wrapped tight around him.

\- - -

The world, when it steadies again, doesn’t do so gradually. 

One moment, everything is fuzzy; and the next, Hooper is standing beside his bed with a needle in her hand, and there’s a small prickling of pain on his arm, and everything is painfully clear. Curled up around him, wearing the same type of sickbay gown as John, Sherlock’s head is resting against his chest, a smile on his face, and his hair a mess all over the place; and John is pretty sure he flushes clear down to his toes. Tries to move away – only to have Sherlock mutter something and tighten his grip around him, and John swallows, hard, as the machine beside him starts beeping out his accelerated heartbeat. Does his best to ignore the flash of sympathy on Hooper’s face before she clears her throat and goes about pressing a second syringe into Sherlock’s arm; and John thinks about stopping her until he can unwrap Sherlock from around him, but he can’t quite make himself take the coward’s way out. Takes a deep breath as Sherlock suddenly goes very still against him, before he unwraps his arms and silently pulls away from John, somehow managing to put space between them on a bed that was only ever built for one. Doesn’t quite manage to look at John – John tries, desperately, to ignore the way Sherlock’s gone so motionless he looks almost like a statue – and then Hooper, bless her, puts the needle down and picks up a clipboard as she clears her throat again, breaking the suddenly awful silence.

“The antidote was not difficult to produce. The rest of the crew has already been cleared.”

“Thank you, Hooper.”

His voice sounds shaky even to his own ears, and Sherlock – finally looks at him, with an expression so blank it’s painful – because Sherlock hasn’t looked at John that way for years. Stares at him for a moment, before he turns to Hooper, very obviously no longer looking at John.

“Am I clear to go, Doctor?”

Hooper just nods, and Sherlock slides off the bed with a rustle of the sickbay gown, and exits the room so quickly it’s almost like he disappears. Like he doesn’t give a hoot that he’s about to wander back to his quarters in nothing but that gown; and the door has just finished hissing shut behind him when Hooper puts down the clipboard and looks at John. It’s the expression that she uses when she knows something, and the other person doesn’t, and it’s never fun to be on the receiving end of; but John can’t quite muster the glare he needs. Simply raises his eyebrows, and Hooper’s lips press tight together in a way that somehow looks both apologetic and determined.

“Captain, it’s not exactly my place –”

“Oh, god.”

“– but those were some pretty serious… declarations of affections, shall we say, on his part. It might be best that you talk to him before he has time to berate himself over –”

“What?”

He can’t help the way his voice shoots up about an entire octave – and goddammit, honestly, he’s the captain of a starship, he really needs to get himself together – but it’s been ten years of wanting Sherlock, and ten years of rare compliments and even rarer moments of outright affection; and he doesn’t think he can be blamed for the way his stomach is pulling so tight it hurts. Swallows hard as Hooper just narrows her eyebrows a bit, before she picks up the clipboard again, still doing that thing where she looks both concerned and far too implacable at the same time.

“You don’t remember anything?”

“I – no, not really. It’s – blurry.”

“I – well, then. I’m not sure exactly what he remembers, then, but either way…”

“I should talk to him.”

“Indeed. The ship can’t exactly function well if the captain and first officer are at odds.”

Hooper’s no idiot, though – and, given what she must have seen while Sherlock and John were intoxicated, she’s got to know that it goes deeper than that, at least on John’s end of things – and John simply nods as he swallows, braces himself, and swings his legs over the side of the bed, grateful when he’s able to stand without the world spinning. There’s some nausea, still – though he’s not sure if it’s from the pollen, or from the conversation that he needs to go have – but he’s a Starfleet captain, and he’s never been a coward; and he’s damn well not going to sit back and let things with Sherlock fall apart. At this point, after eight years of having Sherlock in his life, he knows far well that a life without Sherlock wouldn’t be much of a life worth living.

\- - -

“Enter.”

It’s two hours after John had stumbled his way out of sickbay – he’s had time to take a shower, at least, and to change into some clean off-duty clothes – and when Sherlock’s voice comes through the com outside his quarters, John had to steady himself before he walks through the door. Doesn’t try, for a moment, to project any kind of nonchalance – knows that Sherlock will simply see through it – and then feels something inside him start to hurt at the way Sherlock’s wrapped in a blanket, and curled up on the bed, his hair a disheveled mess. From anyone else, John would call it sulking – it’s something that Sherlock’s definitely been prone to doing – but he knows very well that Sherlock hates being anything even close to vulnerable, and that having his inhibitions stripped away would have been awful under any circumstances. Having it done in front of the whole crew, and complete with him latching to John like an over-affectionate barnacle – well. It’s no wonder he’s now glaring up at John like this entire mess was John’s fault.

“If you ever decide to take Anderson on an away mission again –”

“Sherlock –”

“I will personally put him out an airlock before he gets anywhere near the transporter room.”

It sounds like Sherlock’s teeth are damn near grinding together, and John can’t stop a smile. Feels something inside him unclench, at least a little bit, and then sits down on a chair in front of Sherlock, swallowing down a wave of affection at the way Sherlock is glaring at him, looking all kinds of pissed off. It’s a welcome change from his statue-still embarrassment of their moment in sickbay.

“Going to blame me for everything, then?”

“Yes.”

“I probably shouldn’t be surprised.”

Sherlock’s only response is to glare harder, somehow managing to look both irate and adorable, and John – pauses for a moment, and considers his options. Knows that, even if John himself doesn’t remember the specifics of what happened, it’s still quite probable that Sherlock does; but he can’t stop the wave of cowardice that stops the words he needs to ask. Settles, instead, for something that, hopefully, will straddle the line between acknowledging what happened, and just letting it go.

“So, the next time we get drunk on pollen –”

“Never.”

“– we’d best hope that you don’t decide that Donovan’s the one in need of snuggling.”

“There is no altered state in this universe that could convince me to hug Donovan.”

He’s still glaring as he says it, but he’s not glaring right at John, anymore, and John – doesn’t know if that’s a good thing, or not. Takes a deep breath, and tries to forget how good Sherlock’s arms had felt wrapped around him. He’s kept control of himself for nearly a decade. He can keep doing it now, no matter how much he’d like to probe at what, exactly, either of them had said while they were intoxicated. He’s not quite sure he could really trust any of these under-the-influences declarations, anyway.

“So. Chess?”

“I will never understand why you insist on playing a game that –”

“Yes, I know. I suck at it. Fancy kicking my ass?”

Sherlock – finally – looks at him; and if it’s an expression that John can’t quite read, he’s going to do his best to not worry about it too much. Knows there is a lot to Sherlock that he still can’t hope to understand – and then Sherlock’s lips twitch the tiniest bit, and he nods, just slightly; and that’s more than enough for John. All that cuddle pollen awkwardness aside, if Sherlock is still willing to waste his precious time and energy playing chess against an opponent who's never had a hope in hell of beating him, then John is pretty sure that means they’re alright.

\- - -

A week later, and things have pretty much returned to normal.

Sherlock is back to his regular snarky self, and John has gone back to silently pining from afar, the same way he’s done for longer than he cares to think about. They’re currently in between away missions – mapping out a new series of stars from the safety of the _Baker_ – and John is pretty sure that the entire crew is enjoying the relative lack of stress. The only person, in fact, who doesn’t seem particularly happy about the general situation is Hooper; and when John realizes that she’s made three trips to the Bridge during just one of her shifts, never looking particularly pleased about things, he makes the decision to talk to her. Makes plans with Sherlock for another chess game, later, and then heads down to sickbay, where he finds Hooper glaring at a pile of blood samples as though they’ve insulted her. Does a quick glance around the room to make sure it’s empty, and then sits down across the table from her, raising his eyebrows.

“Going to tell me what’s bothering you, Doctor? Because, quite honestly –”

“It’s not my place.”

“Hooper. You’ve known me since we were first years. I think that gives you the right –”

“Did you even talk to him?”

And that – that is not what John had expected. He’s not quite sure what, exactly, he’d expected – but it certainly wasn’t that; and he takes a deep breath before he aims for as much nonchalance as he can, knowing that – as brilliant as Hooper is – she won’t see through it as easily as Sherlock would.

“I – well – no, not really. But, given the situation, it’s not like anything we said would even be –”

“Captain. I had to stand here and watch you two profess your undying love to each other for over three hours. And – like I said – it’s not my place, but – don’t you think it might as least be worth talking about? Might at least be –”

Distantly, John knows that Hooper is still talking, but it’s become a rush of noise in his ears. By the time he learns how to think and hear again, Hooper’s just staring at him in silence, looking like she’s waiting for something; and John doesn’t say a word as he gets to his feet on shaky knees.

“I – think I need to –”

“Probably a good idea, Captain.”

There’s the tiniest hint of a smile on her face, now, and John tries to remind himself to breathe as he turns on still wobbly legs and heads for the exit, his lungs pulling far too tight inside his chest.

\- - -

“I need to talk to you.”

In front of him, standing beside his bed with the chess board laid out beside him on the table, Sherlock goes very still. Stares at the board, for a painful moment, before he looks up to stare at John in a way that looks almost nervous; and then Sherlock swallows so hard John can actually see it from across the room.

“You’ve been talking to Hooper.”

“You remember. What happened, while we were –”

“No, I don’t.”

“But – then –”

“My knowledge of those interactions also comes from Hooper.” 

“And what did she tell you?”

For a moment, Sherlock just keeps on staring at him. Then, he drops his eyes again, and it takes everything John has to not move closer. Breathes through how much his stomach hurts at how lost Sherlock suddenly looks.

“Sherlock –”

“I don’t have friends, John. I just have you. And – nothing can ruin that.”

“It won’t.”

“For all that you say that –”

“Whether or not you want me as more than a friend, I’ll always be here.”

And that – that is a lot blunter than he’d meant to be. That is his mouth just giving up on having a goddamn filter and spilling out way more honesty than he’d been going for; and then his hands are shaking and his breath is coming much too quickly, because Sherlock – doesn’t look like he’s running away. Looks almost hopeful, suddenly, underneath how nervous he still looks; and John – god, it’s like being punched and kicked and kissed at the same time. Can’t quite make his legs work right, suddenly – and it’s Sherlock, finally, who finally makes that last move forward, closing the little distance between them, and staring at John as though he can see right through him.

“So you – when you were exposed to –”

“Babbled like an idiot about how smitten I am with you, apparently.”

“That sounds – remarkably familiar to Hooper’s accounts of my own actions.”

“Is that so?”

It sounds a bit shaky, even to his own ears, but he can’t stop the smile he can feel tugging at his mouth. Can’t stop the sudden wave of hope; and then Sherlock’s gaze drops, unmistakably, to his lips, before coming back up to his eyes; and John actually cannot believe this is happening. That after eight years of all-night study sessions and countless chess games and dozens and dozens of away missions – that after eight years of being stupid crazy mad about the best friend he’s ever had – Sherlock’s finally looking at him like he wants to kiss him; and John is pretty sure he’s going to hurt something with how hard his heart is slamming. Swallows hard and puts a hand on Sherlock’s elbow – makes himself wait, somehow, to see where Sherlock will go from there – and then puts all his effort into not letting his eyes slide shut when Sherlock takes that one step further, the way he always does, and cups a hand against his chin, brushing a thumb over his cheek and still staring at John as though he can see straight through him, his eyes wide and his mouth dropped slightly open.

“May I –”

He doesn’t quite seem able to finish, but John doesn’t need him to. Somehow manages to nod – it feels a little frantic – and then, finally, Sherlock’s mouth is on his, as soft and careful as the hand on his cheek, and John just – closes his eyes and melts right into it, everything inside him going shaky and his skin catching fire and his throat going all itchy and tight; and by the time Sherlock pulls away again, John’s grinning like an absolute fool, so happy it actually hurts; and the sight of Sherlock smiling back at him is quite easily the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen.


End file.
